I'm Sorry
by Jiminy The Cricket
Summary: Mycroft never helped Sherlock with TRF and, wracked with guilt over selling his brother to Moriarty and other misdeeds in the past, attempts suicide.


Mycroft was at a government conference in Amsterdam when it happened, the Reichenbach Fall, as they called it, and as London Newspapers weren't very popular there, and with his correspondence with Anthea shut off for the trip to avoid an embarrassing interruption, he didn't know until the day he returned to the Diogenes club.

He had put off going back to his office, instead he was sat in silence in his usual chair, mulling over the conclusion to the meeting; ignoring the odd looks some of the men were shooting him, passing it off as annoyance of the squeak of his shoes, when he spotted something on the table, a headline poking out from underneath the New York Times. 'Suic'  
>Intrigued by the headline, wondering who had topped themselves to earn such a big headline, he slid it out of the pile and what he saw made his blood run cold.<br>'Suicide of Fake Genius: Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes throws himself off St. Bart Hospital roof.'  
>He sat there for about a minute, tracing each letter with his eyes. No. It was a hoax, false reporting. It had to be. 'The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated' as they say. It happened to all celebrities... Only, it wasn't a celebrity, it was Sherlock, his little brother Sherlock Holmes, who used to knock at his door at god-forsaken hours to announce the conclusion of a deduction, the boy who used to hide under his bed when he thought monsters were in his wardrobe. His little brother who had looked up to him. His little brother who had bought him his umbrella on his fourteenth birthday. His little brother who had...thrown himself off a building. Because of him.<p>

He put the newspaper down and went into the room next door, reserved of course for those who needed to talk, already reaching for his phone.  
>"Anthea." He said, hiding the slight croak in his voice<br>"Sir. How was your trip?"  
>"When did it happen?" He asked, ignoring the formalities.<br>"Pardon, sir?"  
>"Is it true, Anthea? What the papers are saying?"<br>Anthea fell silent  
>"Tell me." He sounded weary, his walls crumbling now he was alone.<br>"I-I was waiting to tell you in a more... Lighter tone..."  
>"Anthea." His voice cracked, but his bit it back<br>"H-he jumped yesterday, sir. You... You were still at the conference. No one could reach you."  
>"Does John know?"<br>"He saw him, sir. He was the last person he spoke to."

"John."  
>John turned round in his chair, looking over his shoulder. For a moment he saw hope in his eyes, and he realised that his croaking voice must have sounded a lot like Sherlock's, but then the hope was gone and in its place was the cold steel of hatred.<br>"Oh, it's you." He said, turning back round.  
>"I just got back from Amsterdam... I just found out."<br>"Found out that you killed your brother?" John asked, icily. Mycroft's gaze dropped to the floor.  
>John turned round.<br>"What's the matter, iceman? Upset that your little plan didn't work out?"  
>"John, I think you're underestimating my emotions..."<br>"Underestimating!?" John yelled, leaping up from his chair "You don't care that your brother is gone, I bet you don't even miss him! He was just a pawn in your game, wasn't he? How can anyone who used their little brother as a playing peace in a song-and-dance chess game with a psychopath be anything less but devoid of emotion?"  
>"John, listen-"<br>"No you listen! From the first day I met you, you said you were Sherlock's enemy, and I see why now. You are a snake in the grass, a puppet master, you don't care for anyone or anything and now Sherlock is dead all you will miss is a single playing peace on your political chessboard. Moriarty was right, your heart is made of ice."  
>"John..."<br>"Get out."  
>"You don't understa-"<br>"Get. Out. I don't want you here. Noone wants you here, not after what you did. If I were you I wouldn't show my face around here again."

_'No one wants you here...Your heart is made of ice...Snake in the grass... Puppet master... You don't care your brothers gone...you killed your brother...'_ John's voice kept going over in his head and one line stood out the most until it was the only thing going through his mind at all.  
><em>'You killed your brother. You killed your brother. You killed your brother.'<em>  
>He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought, but it just wouldn't go away. Then the words took a new form.<br>_'Kill yourself. No one wants you here. No one would miss you. Hardly anyone even knows you exist, the invisible man, the puppet master of the British Government, only John, Sherlock and the cabinet know about you. Now one is dead at you hand, one will never speak a kind word to you again and the others would sell you out for a promotion at any time, so why would your death matter to them? You killed your brother. Kill yourself.'_  
>Mycroft stood up, going over to his draw and pulled out a sheet of paper. He sat down, drew a breath and began to write.<br>**_'Dear John Watson,_**  
><strong><em>I am writing this to you in way of an apology, the only apology I can truly make to you without you showing me the broad-side of your front door, or worse, your fist.<em>**  
><strong><em>By the time you read this I will be gone and, if the thoughts in my head are anything to go by, no one will miss me.<em>**  
><strong><em>You are right. I killed my brother, but you have to believe me when I tell you it was the biggest mistake of my life. I did not realise that it would lead to the outcome it did and for that I ask you for forgiveness, and when I see Sherlock again I will ask him the same.<em>**  
><strong><em>I never truly thanked you for helping my brother. He was not in a good place when you met him; and he hid his troubles well, but I saw them and I saw them diminish with every passing day. Sherlock thought of you as a brother, and as you helped Sherlock you helped me to, and I thank you for that, I am glad to call you my brother also.<em>**  
><strong><em>Tell mother I am sorry for the heartache I have caused her and father, but not to worry about me. I am with Sherlock now and I, for once, am happy.<em>**  
><strong><em>Yours Sincerely,<em>**  
><strong><em>Mycroft Holmes<em>**

With a sigh, he folded the letter, slid it into an envelope and slotted it into his inside pocket.  
>He took his umbrella and strolled down the street, signalling for a taxi. He had rarely taken one before but he reasoned, as a man condemned to a fate, he should experience new things even on his last journey through London.<br>He made a stop at 221b, slotting the envelope through the letterbox, before stepping back inside the taxi.

When he arrived home, the voices hadn't stopped, but they were chanting now, like school children  
>'You killed Sherlock, no one will miss you. You killed Sherlock, none will miss you...'<br>He propped his umbrella by his chair in the living room, lit the fire, ignoring the voice that said to burn the house down, before going to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of painkillers and another of generic pills, he didn't bother reading the label, and returned to the living room.  
>Sitting heavily in his chair, he poured a pile of pills into his hand, then poured himself a glass from the whiskey decanter, swallowing both the pills and the whiskey in one gulp.<br>He sat for a few minutes, watching the fire crackle in front of him and feeling the whiskey slosh around his empty stomach, and listening to the voices chanting in his head.  
>'You killed Sherlock, no one will miss you. You killed Sherlock, no one will miss you'<br>He felt tired, feeling the fatigue of the pills wash over him. He smiled as the voices began to dim, but felt his heart quicken as his vision began to blur, blackening around the edges, but he forced himself to calm down, this was just the border of oblivion, where the swirling guilt and accusing voices wouldn't get him. It was the beginning of his peace.  
>There was a knock on the door and a shout<br>"Mycroft!? Mycroft are you in there?"  
>John Watson. Damn. Mycroft thought he was out, expecting him to read the message after he was well and truly gone. Not that it mattered now. His muscles in his hand slackened and his glass fell to the floor, shattering with a loud crash.<br>"Mycroft! Open the door now!" John was yelling with more urgency now, the smash convincing him something was wrong.  
>There was a moments pause and then a crash as the door was forcefully kicked inwards.<br>"Mycroft!" John's voice called again, in was faint now. The darkness almost fully clouded his vision.  
>A figure was in front of him now, for a moment Mycroft thought it was Sherlock, but John's voice spoke instead.<br>"Mycroft! Mycroft, can you hear me? Oh god..."  
>He had spotted the pill bottles<br>"Mycroft, stay with me. What did you take? How much have you taken? Mycroft? Mycroft!"  
>The blackness overtook him and he slipped into unconsciousness.<p>

The next sound he heard was a low, monotonous beeping sound, drilling into his right ear. He moaned, rolling his head away from it, only for his left ear then to be filled with an uncomfortable, mechanical hum.  
>He opened his eyes slowly, the bright light stinging his pupils, causing him to blink rapidly.<br>He was in a hospital room, an IV drip on one side and a heart machine on the other. He looked from one to the other, bemused for a while. What had happened? He was meant to be dead. He wasn't meant to still be here he was meant to see Sh-  
>John Watson was sat on one of the chairs, looking directly at him. His eyes were red raw, as if he had rubbed peppers in them. He had been crying, for what? For him?<br>"Good morning, John."  
>John blinked. He nodded at the clock. Mycroft looked up at it.<br>Half 5 in the afternoon.  
>"Good... Afternoon..." Mycroft corrected himself. He winced as a headache hit him across the temples like a sledgehammer.<br>"H-how long have I been out?"  
>"A week. Half medically induced, half on your own."<br>"I see."  
>"I..." John paused, taking a breath. "I am so... So sorry..."<br>"For what?"  
>John looked at him like he was mad<br>"For what?!" He laughed, almost manically "I drove you to suicide, Mycroft. I vented all my anger for Moriarty and the press onto you and I didn't truly realise until after we talked that you must have some pretty nasty inner demons to... But I never thought... I never realised you would even try to..."  
>"It was a simple anger issue. Many people have them. And anyway, I did deserve what you said."<br>John shook his head.  
>"No you didn't. Moriarty did. You were just doing what you thought was best for the country, trying to save the identities of countless servicemen in exchange for some simple childhood memories. I would have done the same."<p>

It was barely an hour afterwards did John tell Molly. He didn't know why he told her in particular, but she was the closest at hand. After he had gone back home to wait for news on Mycroft's condition, Molly picked up her mobile and scrolled down to 'Pet Shop', Sherlock's new number, disguised so not to raise suspicion. He was somewhere in Asia right now, she thought as she prayed for him to pick up.  
>"Hello, Molly." Sherlock greeted brightly<br>"Sherlock." Molly sighed into the phone. Sherlock was fine. The last time they had spoken he had been injured. The cries of pain were still haunting her at night.  
>"So tell me, Is everyone falling over themselves in grief yet or am I just being optimistic?"<br>"Sherlock... I've got some bad news..."  
>"What?" Sherlock broke off his gloating, his heart sinking and blood cold. "Is John alright? Mrs. Hudson?"<br>"They're fine, Sherlock..." Molly reassured them  
>"Then who?"<br>Molly took a breath  
>"Mycroft tried to kill himself."<br>"What?" Sherlock rasped. There was a 'thunk' sound as Sherlock sat down heavily "Why?"  
>"John said it was out of guilt. John had a falling out with him and blamed him for the entire thing, in anger. A few hours later and Mycroft... Mycroft overdosed on painkillers and anti-depressants in his house."<br>"Is he ok?"  
>"He's fine physically, but he's still wracked with guilt. John says he's hiding it flawlessly from the doctors but he can tell he's breaking on the inside."<br>"I'm coming back."  
>"Sherlock, you have work to do."<br>"I have to see my brother."  
>Molly stopped, then nodded<br>"Ok. He's going to be discharged in a days time. We can allow a few hours in England, but then you're going straight back."

Mycroft walked through his front door, leaning heavily on his umbrella. Home at last. He was briefly aware of his knocker was at an angle, but he was to distracted by the prospect of his bed and of the pills in his cupboard. This time he wouldn't be so clumsy as to leave a note.  
>He leant his umbrella against the hatstand and removed his coat before going to the living room door.<br>As he pushed it open, he was met by a sight that he never expected.

Sherlock was stood there, in the centre of the room, his blue eyes staring at Mycroft with an expression of awkwardness and sadness. Mycroft froze. The two stared at each other for over a minute before Sherlock opened his mouth.  
>"I'm sorry."<br>Mycroft's step faltered for a moment, but then he surged forwards and tackled Sherlock into a strong, needing hug. They remained that way for over two minutes, tapping out unspoken grief and joy in morse code on each others shoulders, before breaking off. They coughed, collected themselves and went into formalities.  
>"You can't tell John." Sherlock said "I am still dead to London. I shouldn't even be here, but I returned as soon as I could after I heard of your... After I heard of the incident." Sherlock coughed. Mycroft smirked.<br>"When were... Are you going to come back?" Mycroft asked  
>"When my job is done and Moriarty's network is well and truly dissolved. I had my homeless network keeping tabs on you and they did tell me you and John had a falling out but I never thought you would..."<br>"It's the past now, brother." Mycroft said. Sherlock nodded. No other words passed them after that. Sherlock turned up his collar and left out the back door, heading for a taxi organised by Mycroft to take him back to the plane which would return him to wherever in the world he had been.  
>Both brothers agreed. The past was the past and Mycroft had his brother back.<p> 


End file.
